Oathbreaker

One

It was a dark and stormy night....

:Pah!: Warrl said with disgust so thick Tarma could taste it. :Must you even think in cliches'?:

Tarma took her bearings during another flash of lightning, tried and failed to make out Warrl's shaggy bulk against watery blackness, then thought back at him, Well it is, danmit!

Tarma shena Tale'sedrin, who was Shin'a'in nomad, Kal'enedral (or, to outClansmen, a "Sword-sworn"), and most currently Scoutmaster for the mercenary company called "Idra's Sunhawks" was not particularly happy at this moment. She was sleet-drenched, cold and numb, and mired to her armpits; as was her companion, the lupine kyree Warrl. The Sunhawks' camp was black as the in-side of a box at midnight, for all it was scarcely an hour past sunset. Her hair was plastered flat to her skull, and trickles of icy water kept running into her eyes. She couldn't even feel the ends of her ringers anymore. Her feet hurt, her joints ached, her nose felt so frozen it was like to fall off, and her teeth were chattering hard enough to splinter. She was not pleased, having to stumble around in the dark and freezing rain to find the tent she shared with her partner and oathbound sister, the White Winds sorceress, Kethry.

The camp was dark out of necessity; even in a downpour sheltered fires would normally burn in the firepits in front of each tent, or a slow-burning torch would be staked out in the lee of every fourth, but that was impossible tonight. You simply couldn't keep a fire lit when the wind howled at you from directions that changed moment by moment, driving the rain before it; and torches under canvas were a danger even the most foolhardy would forgo. A few of the Sunhawks had lanterns or candles going in their tents; but the weather was foul enough that most preferred to go straight to sleep when not on duty. It was too plaguey cold and wet to be sociable. For heat, most stuck to the tiny charcoal braziers Idra had insisted they each pack at the beginning of this campaign. The Sunhawks had known their Captain too well to argue about (what had seemed at the time) a silly burden; now they were grateful for her foresight.

But with the rain coming down first in cascades, then in waterways, Tarma couldn't see the faint glow of candles or lanterns shining through the canvas walls that would have told her where the tents were. So she slogged her way through the camp mostly by memory and was herself grateful to Idra for insisting on an orderly camp, laid out neatly, in proper rows. and not the hugger-mugger arrangement some of the other mere officers were allowing. At least she wasn't tripping over tent ropes or falling into firepits.

:I can smell Keth and magic,: Warrl said into her mind. :You should see the mage-light soon.:

"Thanks, Furball," Tarma replied, a little more mollified; she knew he wouldn't hear her over the howl of the wind, but he'd read the words in her mind. She kept straining her eyes through the tem-pest for a sight of the witchlight Keth had prom-ised to leave at the front-to distinguish their tent from the two hundred odd just like it.

They were practically on top of it before she saw the light, a blue glow outlining the door flap and brightening the fastenings. She wrestled with the balky rawhide ties (the cold made her fingers stiff) and it took so long to get them unfastened that she was swearing enough to warm the whole camp be-fore she had the tent flaps open. Having Warrl pressed up against her like a sodden* unhappy cat did not help.

The wind practically threw Tarma into the tent, and half the sleet that was knifing down on their camp tried to come in with her. Warrl remained plastered against her side, not at all helpful, smelling in the pungent, penetrating way only a wet wolf can smell -- even if Warrl only resembled a wolf superficially. The kyree was not averse to reminding Tarma several times a day (as, in fact, he was doing now) that they could have been curled up in a cozy inn if they hadn't signed on with this mercenary company.

She turned her back to the occupant of the tent as soon as she got past the tent flaps; she needed all her attention to get them laced shut against the perverse pull of the wind. "Gods of damnation!" she spat through stiff lips, "Why did I ever think this was a good idea?"

Kethry, only just now waking from a light doze, refrained from replying; she just waited until Tarma got the tent closed up again. Then she spoke three guttural words, activating the spell she'd set there before drowsing off -- and a warm yellow glow raced around the tent walls, meeting and spreading up-ward until the canvas was bathed in mellow light and the temperature within suddenly rose to that of a balmy spring day. Tarma sighed and sagged a little.

"Let me take that," Kethry said then, unwinding herself from the thick wool blankets of her bedroll, rising, and pulling the woolen coat, stiff with ice, from Tarma's angular shoulders. "Get out of those soaked clothes."

The Swordswornan shook water out of her short-cropped black hair, and only just prevented Warrl from trying the same maneuver.

"Don't you dare, you flea-bitten curl Gods above and below, you'll soak every damned thing in the tent!"

Warrl hung his head and looked sheepish, and waited for his mindmate to throw an old thread-bare horse blanket over him. Tarma enveloped him in it, head to tail, held it in place while he shook himself, then used it to towel off his coarse gray-black fur.

"Glad to see you, Greeneyes," Tarma continued, stripping herself down to the skin, occasionally wincing as she moved. She rummaged in her pack, finding new underclothing, and finally pulling on dry breeches, thick leggings and shirt of a dark brown lambswool. "I thought you'd still be with your crew -- "

Kethry gave an involuntary shudder of sympathy at the sight of her partner's nearly-emaciated frame. Tarma was always thin, but as this campaign had stretched on and on, she'd become nothing but whipcord over bone. She hadn't an ounce of flesh to spare; no wonder she complained of being cold so much! And the scars lacing her golden skin only gave a faint indication of the places where she'd taken deeper damage -- places that would ache demonically in foul weather. Kethry gave her spell another little mental nudge, sending the temperature of the tent a notch upward.

I should have been doing this on a regular basis, she told herself guiltily. Well -- that's soon mewled.

" -- so there's not much more I can do." The sweet-faced sorceress gathered strands of hair like sun-touched amber into both hands, twisting her curly mane into a knot at the back of her neck. The light from the shaded lantern which hung on the tent's crossbar, augmented by the light of the shielding spell, was strong enough that Tarma noted the dark circles under her cloudy green eyes. "Tresti is accomplishing more than I can at this point. You know my magic isn't really the Healing kind, and on top of that, right now we have more wounded men than women."

"And Need'll do a man about as much good as a stick of wood."

Kethry glanced at the plain shortsword slung on the tent's centerpole, and nodded. "To tell you the truth, lately she won't heal anybody but you or me of anything but major wounds, so she isn't really useful at all at this point. I wonder sometimes if maybe she's saving herself -- Anyway, the last badly injured woman was your scout Mala this morning."

"We got her to you in time? Gods be thanked!" Tarma felt the harpwire-taut muscles of her shoulders go lax with relief. Mala had intercepted an arrow when the scouts had been surprised by an enemy ambush; Tarma had felt personally responsible, since she'd sent Warrl off in the opposite direction only moments before. The scout had been barely conscious by the time they'd pounded up to the Sunhawk camp.

"Only just; an arrow in the gut is not something even for a Master-Healer to trifle with, and all we have is a Journeyman."

"Teach me to steal eggs, why don't you? Tell me something I don't know," Tarma snapped, ice-blue eyes narrowed in irritation, harsh voice and craggy-featured scowl making her look more like a hawk than ever.

Oops. A little too near the home, I think.

"Temper," Kethry cautioned; it had taken years of partnership for them to be able to say the right thing at the right time to each other, but these days they seldom fouled the relationship. "Whatever happened, you can't undo it; you'd tell me that if the case were reversed. And Mala's all right, so there's no permanent harm done."

"Gah -- " Tarma shook her head again, then continued the shake right down to her bare feet, loosening all the muscles that had been tensed against cold and anger and frustration. "Sorry. My nerves have gone all to hell. Finish about Mala so I can tell the others."

"Nothing much to tell; I had Need unsheathed and in her hands when they brought her inside the camp. The arrow's out, the wound's purified and stitched and half-healed, or better. She'll be back dodging arrows -- with a little more success, I hope! -- in about a week. After that all I could do that was at all useful was to set up a jesto-vath around the infirmary tent -- that's a shielding spell like the one I just put on ours. After that I was useless, so I came back here. It was bad enough out there I figured a jesto-vath on owr tent was worth the energy expense, and I waited for you to get in before putting it in place so I wouldn't have to cut it. Can't have the Scoutmaster coming down with a fever." She smiled, and her wide green eyes sparkled with mischief. "Listen to you, though -- two years ago, you wouldn't have touched a command position, and now you're fretting over your scouts exactly the way Idra fusses over the rest of us."

Tarma chuckled, feeling the tense muscles all over her body relaxing. "You know the saying."

"Only too well -- 'That was then, this is now; the moment is never the same twice.' "

"You're learning. Gods, having a mage as a partner is useful."

Tarma threw herself onto her bedroll, rolling over onto her back and putting her hands behind her head. She stared at the canvas of the tent roof, bright with yellow mage-light, and basked in the heat.

"I pity the rest of the Hawks, with nobody to weatherproof their tents, and nothing but an itty-bitty brazier to keep it warm. Unless they're twoing, in which case I wish them well."

"Me too," Kethry replied with a tired smile, sitting crosslegged on her own bedroll to fasten the knot of hair more securely, "though there's only a handful really twoing it. I rather suspect even the ones that aren't will bundle together for warmth, though, the way we used to when I wasn't capable of putting up a jesto-vath."

"You must be about Master-grade yourself by now, no?"

Tarma cracked her left eye open enough to see Kethry's face. The question obviously caught the mage by surprise.

"Beyond it?"

"Uh -- "

"Thought so." Tarma closed her eyes again in satisfaction. "This job should do it, then. Through Idra we'll have contacts right up into the Royal ranks. If we can't wangle the property, students and wherewithal for our schools after this, we'll never get it."

"We'd have had it before this if it hadn't been for that damned minstrel!" Now it was Kethry's turn to snap with irritation.

"Must you remind me?" Tarma groaned, burying her face in the crook of her arm. "Leslac, Leslac, if it weren't for Bardic immunity I'd have killed you five times over!"

"You'd have had to stand in line," Kethry countered with grim humor. "I'd have beat you to it. Bad enough that he sings songs about us, worse that he gets the salient points all backwards, but -- "

"To give us the reputation that we're shining Warriors of the Light is too damned muck!"

They had discovered some four or five years ago that there was a particular Bard, one Leslac by name, who was making a specialty of creating ballads about their exploits. That would have been all to the good, for it was certainly spreading their name and reputation far and wide -- except that he was also leaving the impression that the pair of them were less interested in money than in Just Causes.

Leslac had stressed and overstressed their habit of succoring women in distress and avenging those who were past distress. So now anyone who had an ax to grind came looking for them -- most particularly, women. And usually they came with empty pockets, or damned little in the way of payment to offer, while the paying jobs they would rather have taken had been trickling away to others -- because those who might have offered those jobs couldn't believe they'd be interested in "mere money."

And to add true insult to injury, a good half of the time Kethry's geas-blade Need would force them into taking those worthless Just Causes. For Need's geas was, as written on her blade, "Woman's Need calls me/As Woman's Need made me./Her Need will I answer/As my maker bade me." By now Kethry was so soul-bonded to the sword that it would have taken a god to free her from it. Most of the time it was worth it; the blade imparted absolute weapons expertise to Kethry, and would Heal anything short of a death wound on any woman holding it. And after the debacle with the demon-godling Thalhkarsh, Need had seemed to quiet down in her demands, unless directly presented with a woman in dire trouble. But with all those Just Causes showing up, Need had been rapidly turning into something more than a bit expensive to be associated with, thanks to Leslac.

They'd been at their wits' ends, and finally had gone to another couple of mercenaries, old friends of theirs, Justin Twoblade and Ikan Dryvale, for advice. They hadn't really hoped the pair would have any notions, but they were the last resort. And, somewhat to Tarma's surprise, they'd had advice.

It was the off-season for the Jewel Merchant's Guild, Justin and Ikan's employers; that meant no caravans. And that meant that the paired mercenary guards were cosily holed up in their private quarters at the Broken Sword, with the winter months to while away. They certainly weren't stinting themselves; they had a pair of very decent rooms, the Broken Sword's excellent ale -- and, as Tarma discovered when she tapped at their door, no lack of female companionship. But the current pair of bright-eyed lovelies was sent pouting away when straw-haired Ikan answered their knock and discovered just who it was chat had chosen to descend upon himself and his partner -- One of the innkeeper's quick-footed offspring was summoned then, and sent off for food and ale -- for neither Justin nor his shieldbrother would hear a word of serious talk until everyone was settled and comfortable at their hearth, meat and drink at their elbows. Justin and Ikan took their hospitality very seriously.

"I've figured this was coming," Justin had said, somewhat to Tarma's shock, "And not just because of that idiot songster. You two have very unique and specialized skills -- not like me and Ikan. You've gotten about as far as you can as an independent pairing. Now me and Ikan, we had the opposite problem. We're just ordinary fighting types; a bit better than most, but that's all that distinguishes us. We had to join a company to get a reputation; then we could live off that reputation as a pair. But you -- you've got a reputation that will get you high fees from the right mercenary company."

Tarma had shaken her head doubtfully at that, but Justin had fixed her with his mournful houndlike eyes, and she'd held her peace.

"You, Tarma," he'd continued, "need much wider experience, especially experience in commanding others -- and only a company will give you that. Kethry, you need to exercise skills and spells you wouldn't use in a partnership, and to leam how to delegate if your school is ever going to be successful, and again, you'll learn that in a company."

"Long speech," Tarma had commented sardonically.

"Well, I've got one, too," Ikan had said, winking a guileless blue eye at her. "You also need exposure to highborns, so that they know your reputation isn't just minstrelsy and moonshine. You haven't a choice; you truly need to join a company, one with a reputation of their own, one good enough that the highborns come to them for their contract. Then, once you are ready to hang up your blades and start your schools, you'll have noble patrons and noble pupils panting in anticipation of your teaching -- and two not-so-noble aging fighters panting in anticipation of easy teaching jobs."

Kethry had laughed at Ikan's comic half-bow in their direction. "I take it that you already have a company in mind?"

"Idra's Sunhawks," Justin had replied blandly.

"The Sunhawks? Warrior's Oath -- you'd aim us bloody damned high, wouldn't you?" Tarma had been well taken aback. For all that they were composed of specialist-troops -- skirmishers, horse-archers and trackers -- the Sunhawks' repute was so high that kings and queens had been known to negotiate their contracts with Idra in person. "Good gods, I should bloody well think highborns negotiate with them; their leader's of the damned Royal House of Rethwellan! And just how are we supposed to get a hearing with Captain Idra?"

"Us," Ikan had replied, stabbing a thumb at his chest. "We're ex-Hawks; we started with her, and probably would still be with her, but Idra was going more and more over to horse-archers, and we were getting less useful, so we decided to light out on our own. But we left on good terms; if we recommend that she give you a hearing, Idra will take our word on it."

"And once she sees that you're what you claim to be, you'll be in, never fear." Justin had finished for him. "Shin'a'in Kal'enedral -- gods, you'd fit in like a sword in a sheath, Hawkface. And you, Keth -- Idra's always got use for another mage, 'specially one nearly Masterclass. The best she's got now is a couple of self-taught hedge-wizards. Add in Furball there -- you'll be a combination she won't be able to resist."

So it had proved. With letters in their pouches from both Ikan and his partner (both could read and write, a rarity among highborn, much less mercenaries) they had headed for the Sunhawks' winter quarters, a tiny hill town called Hawksnest. The name was not an accident; the town owed its existence to the Sunhawks, who wintered there and kept their dependents there, those dependents that weren't permanent parts of the Company bivouac. Hawksnest was nestled in a mountain valley, sheltered from the worst of the mountaintop weather, and the fortified barracks complex of the Sunhawks stood between it and the valley entrance. When the Hawks rode out, a solid garrison and all the Hawks-in-training remained behind. Idra believed in creating an environment for her fighters in which the only worries they needed to have on campaign were associated with the campaign.

Signing with Idra was unlike signing with any other Company; most Hawks stayed with Idra for years -- she had led the Company for nearly twenty years. She'd willingly renounced her position as third in line to the throne of Rethwellan twenty-five years earlier, preferring freedom over luxury. She'd hired on with a mercenary company herself, then after five years of experience accompanied by her own steady rise within the ranks, had formed the Hawks.

Tarma had been impressed with the quarters and the town; the inhabitants were easy, cheerful and friendly -- which spoke of good behavior on the part of the meres. The Hawks' winter quarters were better than those of many standing armies, and Tarma had especially approved of the tall wooden palisade that stretched across the entrance to Hawksnest, a palisade guarded by both Hawks and townsmen. And the Hawks themselves -- as rumor had painted them -- were a tight and disciplined group; drilling even in the slack season, and showing no sign of winter-bom softness.

Idra had sent for them herself after reading their letters; they found her in her office within the Hawks' barracks. She was a muscular, athletic looking woman, with the body of a born horsewoman, mouse-gray hair, a strong face that could have been used as the model for a heroic monument, and the direct and challenging gaze of the professional soldier.

"So," she'd said, when they took their seats across the scratched, worn table that served as her desk, "if I'm to trust Twoblade and Dryvale, it should be me begging you to sign on."

Kethry had blushed; Tarma had met that direct regard with an unwavering gaze of her own. "I'm Kal'enedral," Tarma said shortly. "If you know Shin'a'in, that should tell you something."

"Swordsworn, hmm?" The quick gray eyes took in Tarma's brown clothing. "Not on bloodfeud -- "

"That was ended some time ago," Tarma told her, levelly. "We ended it, we two working together. That was how we met."

"Shin'a'in Kal'enedral and outClansman. Unlikely pairing -- even given a common cause. So why are you still together?"

For answer they both turned up their right palms so that she could see the silver crescent-scars that decorated them. One eyebrow lifted, ever so slightly.

"Sa. She'enedran. That explains a bit. Seems I've heard of a pair like you."

"If it was in songs," Tarma winced, "let's just say the stories are true in the main, but false in the details. And the author constantly left out the fact that we've always done our proper planning before we ever took on the main event. Luck plays wondrous small part in what we do, if we've got any say in the matter. And besides all that -- we're a lot more interested in making a living than being somebody's savior."

Idra had nodded; her expression had settled into something very like satisfaction. "One last question for each of you -- what's your specialty, Shin'a'in -- and what's your rank and school, mage?"

"Horseback skirmishing, as you probably figured, knowing me for Shin'a'in." Tarma had replied first. "I'm a damned good archer -- probably as good as any you've got. I can fight afoot, but I'd rather not. We've both got battlesteeds, and I'm sure you know what that means. My secondary skill is tracking."

"I'm White Winds, Journeyman; I'd say I lack a year or two of being Masterclass." Kethry had given her answer hard on the heels of Tarma's. "One other thing I think Ikan and Justin may have forgotten -- Tarma is mindmate to a kyree, and I've got a bespelled blade I'm soul-bonded to. It gives me weapons expertise, so I'm pretty good at keeping myself in one piece on a battlefield; that's damned useful in a fight, you won't have to spare anybody to look after me. And besides that, it will Heal most wounds for a woman -- and that's any woman, not just me."

Idra had not missed the implication. "But not a man, eh? Peculiar, but -- well, I'm no mage, can't fathom your ways. About half my force is female, so that would come in pretty useful regardless. But White Winds -- that's no Healing school."

"No, it's not," Kethry agreed, "I haven't the greater Healing magics, just a few of the lesser. But I've got the battle-magics, and the defensive magics. I'm not one to stand in the back of a fight, shriek, and look appalled -- "

For the first time Idra smiled. "No, I would guess not, for all that you look better suited to a bower than a battlefield. About the kyree -- we're talking Pelagir Hills changeling, here? Standard wolf-shape?"

"Hai -- overall he's built like a predator cat, but he's got the coat and head of a wolf. Shoulder comes to about my waist, he runs like a Plains grasscat; no stamina for a long march, but he's used to riding pillion with me." Tarma's description made Idra nod, eyes narrowed in definite satisfaction. "He's got a certain ability at smelling out magic, and a certain immunity to it; given he's from the Pelagirs he might have other tricks, but he hasn't used them around me yet. Mindspeaks, too, mostly to me, but he could probably make himself heard to anyone with a touch of the Gift. Useful scout, even more useful as an infiltrator. But be aware that he eats a lot, and if he can't hunt, he'll be wanting fresh meat daily. That'll have to be part of any contract we sign."

"Well, from what my boys say, what I knew by reputation, and what you've told me, I don't think I need any more information. Only one thing I don't reckon -- " Idra had said, broad brow creased with honest puzzlement. "If you don't mind my asking what's none of my business even if I do sign you, why's the kyree mindmate to the fighter and not the mage's familiar?"

Tarma groaned, then, and Kethry laughed. "Oh, Warrl has a mind of his own," the mage had answered, "I had been the one doing the calling, but he made the decision. He decided that I didn't need him, and Tarma did."

"So besides your formidable talents, I get three recruits, not two; three used to teamworking. No commander in her right mind would argue with that." Idra then stood up, and pushed papers across her desk to them. "Sign those, my friends, if you're still so minded, and you'll be Sunhawks before the ink dries."

So it had been. Now Tarma was subcommander of the scouts, and Keth was in charge of the motley crew concerned with Healing and magery -- two hedge-mages, a field-surgeon and herbalist and his two apprentices, and a Healing Priest of Shayana. "Priestess" would have been a more accurate title, but the Shayana's devotees did not make any gender differences in their rankings, which ofttimes confused someone who expected one sex and got the opposite. Tresti was handfasted to Sewen, Idra's Second, a weathered, big-boned, former trooper; that sometimes caused Keth sleepless nights. She wondered what would happen if it was ever Sewen carried in through the door flap of the infirmary, but the possibility never seemed to bother Tresti.

Tarma and Kethry had fought in two intense campaigns, each lasting barely a season; this was their third, and it had been brutal from the start. But then, that was often the case with civil war and rebellion.

Ten moons ago, the King of Jkatha had died, declaring his Queen, Sursha, to be his successor and Regent for their three children. Eight moons ago Sursha's brother-in-law, Declin Lord Kelcrag, had made a bid for the throne with his own armed might.

Lord Kelcrag was initially successful in his attempt, actually driving Sursha and her allies out of the Throne City and into the provinces. But he could not eliminate them, and he had made the mistake of assuming that defeat meant that they would vanish.

Queen Sursha had talent and wisdom -- the talent to attract both loyal and capable people to her cause, and the wisdom to know when to stand back and let them do what was needful, however distasteful that might be to her gentle sensibilities. That talent won half the kingdom to her side; that wisdom allowed her to pick an otherwise rough-hewn provincial noble, Havak Lord Leamount, as her General-in-Chief and led her to give him her full and open support even when his decisions were personally repugnant to her.

General Lord Leamount levied or begged troops from every source he could -- and then hired specialists to till in the skill gaps his levies didn't have.

And one of the first mercenary Captains he had approached was Idra. His troops were mostly foot, with a generous leavening of heavy horse -- no skirmishers, no scouts, no light horse at all, other than his own personal levy of hill-clansmen. The hillmen were mounted on rugged little ponies; good in rough country but slow in open areas, and useless as strike-and-run skirmishers.

And by now Idra's troops were second to none, thanks in no small part to Tarma. The Shin'a'in had seen no reason why she could not benefit her presumptive clan's coffers, and her new comrades as well; she'd arranged for the Sunhawks to get first pick of the sale-horses of Tale'sedrin. These weren't battlesteeds, which were never let out of Shin'a'in hands, but they weren't culls either, which was what the Sunhawks had been seeing. And when the Hawks had snapped up every beast she offered, she arranged for four more clans to bring in their first-pick horses as well.

So now the Hawks were better mounted than most nobles, on horses that could be counted as extra weapons in a close-in fight.

That fact was not lost on Lord Leamount, nor was he blind to Idra's canny grasp of strategy. Idra was made part of the High Command, and pretty much allowed to dictate how her Hawks were used.

As a result, although the fighting had been vicious, the Hawks were still at something like four-fifths strength; their ranks were nowhere near as decimated as they might have been under a commander who threw them recklessly at the enemy, rather than using them to their best advantage.

At Midsummer, Lord Leamount's combined forces had fallen on the Throne City and driven Lord Kelcrag out. Every move Kelcrag had made since then had been one of retreat. His retreat had been hard fought, and each acre of ground had been bitterly contested, but it had been an inexorable series of losses.

But now autumn was half over; he had made a break-and-run, and at this point everyone in Leamount's armies knew why. He was choosing to make a last stand on ground he had picked.

Both sides knew this next battle would have to bring the war to a conclusion. In winter it would be impossible to continue any kind of real fight -- the best outcome would be stalemate as troops of both sides floundered through winter storms and prayed that ill-luck and hardship would keep their ranks from being thinned too much. If Kelcrag retreated to his own lands, he'd come under seige, and ultimately lose if the besieging troops could be supplied and rotated. If he fled into exile, the Queen would have to mount an ever-present vigil against his return -- an expensive proposition. She and Leamount had both wanted to invoke the Mercenary Code ritual of Oathbreaking and Outcasting on him -- but while he was undeniably a rebel, he had actually broken no vows; nor could Sursha find the requisite triad for the full ceremony of priest, mage and honest man, all of whom must have suffered personal, irreparable harm at his hands as a result of violation of sworn oaths. So technically, he could have been seen by some to be the injured party.

And as for Kelcrag in such a situation, exile would mean impoverishment and hardship, circumstances he was not ready to face; further, it would bring the uncertainty of when or even if he could muster enough troops and allies to make a second try.

Kelcrag had chosen his ground with care, Tarma had to give him that. He had shale cliffs (impossible to scale) to his left, scrub forest and rough, broken ground to his right (keeping Leamount from charging from that direction); his troops were on the high ground, occupying a wide pass between the hills, with a gradual rising slope between his army and the loyalists --

It was as close to being an ideal situation for the rebels as Tarma could imagine. There was no way to come at him except straight on, and no way he could be flanked. And now the autumnal rains were beginning.

Of all of Idra's folk, only the scouts had been deployed, seeking (in vain) holes or weaknesses in Kelcrag's defenses. For the rest, it had been Set up camp. Dig in, and Wait. Wait for better weather, better information, better luck.

"Gah -- " Tarma groaned again. "I hope Kelcrag's as miserable on his damned hill as we are down here. Anything out of the mages?"

"Mine, or in general?"

"Both."

"Mine have been too busy fending off nuisance-spells to bother with trying to see what's going on across the way. I've been setting up wards on the camp, protections on our commanders, and things like the jesto-vatk on the Healer's tent. I haven't heard anything directly from Leamount's greater mages, but I've got some guesses."

"Which are?" Tarma stretched, then turned on her side.

"The Great Battle Magics were exhausted early on for both sides in this mess, and none of the mages have had time to regather power. That leaves the Lesser -- which means they're dueling like a pair of tired but equally-matched bladesmen. Neither can see what the other is doing; neither can get anything through that's more than an annoyance. And neither wants to let down their guards and their shields enough to recharge in a power circle or open up enough to try one of the Greater Magics they might have left. So your people will be pretty much left alone except for physical, material attacks."

"Well, that's a blessing, any -- "

"Scoutmaster?" came a plaintive call from outside the tent. "Be ye awake yet?"

"Who the bloody -- " Tarma scrambled for the lacings of the door flaps as Kethry hastily cut the spell about the door with two slashes of her hands and a muttered word.

"Get in here, child, before you turn into an ice lump!" Tarma hauled the half-frozen scout into their tent; the girl's brown eyes went round at the sight of the spell energy in the tent walls, wide and no little frightened. She looked like what she was, a mountain peasant; short, stocky and brown, round of face and eye. But she could stick to the back of her horse like a burr on a sheep, she was shrewd and quick, and nobody's fool. She was one of the Hawks Tarma had been thinking of when she'd mentioned other ways of keeping warm; Kyra was shieldmated to Rild, a mountain of a man who somehow managed to sit a horse as lightly as thin Tarma.

"Keth, this is Kyra, she's one of the new ones. Replaced Pawell when he went down." Tarma pushed the girl down onto her bedroll and stripped the sodden black cloak from her shoulders, hanging it to dry beside her own coat. "Kyra. don't look so green; you've seen Keth in the Healer's tent; this is just a bit of magic so we sleep more comfortable. Keth's better than a brazier, and I don't have to worry about her tipping over in the night!"

The girl swallowed hard, but looked a little less frightened. "Beg pardon, but I ain't seen much magery."

"I should think not, out in these hills. Not much call for it, nor money to pay for it. So -- spit it out; what brings you here, instead of curled up with that monster you call a shieldmate?"

The girl blushed brilliant red. "Na, Scoutmaster -- "

"Don't 'na' me, my girl. I may not play the game anymore, but I know the rules -- and before the Warrior put her Oath on me, I had my moments, though you children probably wouldn't think it to look at me, old stick that I am. Out with it -- something gone wrong with the pairing?"

"Eh, no! Naught like that -- I just been thinking. Couldn't get a look round before today; now seems I know this pass, like. Got kin a ways west, useta summer wi' 'cm. Cousins. If I'm aright, 'bout a day's ride west o' here. And there was always this rumor, see, there was this path up their way -- "

Tarma didn't bother to hide her excitement; she leaned forward on her elbows, feeling a growing internal certainty that what Kyra was about to reveal was vital.

" -- there was this story abaht the path, d'ye ken? The wild ones, the ponies, they used it. At weanin' time we'd go for 'em to harvest the foals, but some on 'em would allus get away -- well, tales said they used that path, that it went all the way through t'other side. D'ye take my meaning?"

"Warrior Bright, you bet I do, my girl!" Tarma jumped lithely to her feet, and pulled Kyra up after her. "Keth?"

"Right." Kethry made the slashing motions again, and the magic parted from the door flaps. "Wait a hair -- I don't want you two finding our answer and then catching your deaths."

Another pass of hands and a muttered verse sent water steaming up out of coat and cloak -- when Tarma pulled both off the centerpole they were dry to the touch.

Tarma flashed her partner a grin. "Thanks, milady. If you get sleepy, leave the door open for me, hey?"

Kethry gave a most unladylike snort. "As if I could sleep after this bit of news! I haven't been working with you for this long not to see what you saw -- "

"The end to the stalemate."

"You've said it. I'll be awake for hours on this one." Kethry settled herself with her blankets around her, then dismissed the magic altogether. The tent went dark and cold again, and Kethry relit her brazier with another muttered word. "I'll put that jesto-vath back up when you get back -- and make it fast! Or I may die of nerves instead of freezing to death!"